


What Are You Doing For The Rest Of Your Life?

by p0ck3tf0x



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chance Meetings, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5800621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p0ck3tf0x/pseuds/p0ck3tf0x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert kept asking him out. Matthew kept saying 'yes'. A story of chance encounters and the places they lead us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are You Doing For The Rest Of Your Life?

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2014.

Matthew curled beneath the bus shelter and tried to ring out his sweater. It was a lost cause, of course. The thunderstorm had soaked through his clothes, through his satchel, through his notes. He was a mess.

‘Clear skies,’ the weatherman had said. 'No chance of rain,’ he said. Bullshit. Matthew should have known better than to take him at his word.

He grumbled and pulled out an old, worn handkerchief. It was wet.

He used it anyway.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” A man shouted as he darted up the street and ducked into shelter. He hissed and shook his hands, splashing both of them. He sneezed.

Matthew disliked him immediately.

"Oh, man, did you _see_ that? The lightning? Fucking eh!” He swept his hood back and carded his fingers through his dampened, darkened mane. He shivered like a dog.

Matthew tried to ignore him and disappear into the shadowed corner of the bus shelter but the man kept following him. The bus would be at least another hour and he refused to spend that time talking to strangers. He was just not in the mood. Not at all.

Unfortunately, the other man did not seem to care whether or not he was in the mood. He sidled up beside him and pointed to the clouds.

"I mean, look at that! Isn’t that _awesome_?”

Matthew sighed and tried to turn around. And he had thought that the evening could not get worse…

"Hey, you don’t talk much. Are you shy?”

“No,” Matthew muttered under his breath, “you just talk too much.”

He had not expected to be heard, not over the thunder and the spattered rain, but the man let out a short bark of laughter and threw an arm over his shoulder. Matthew stared at the offending appendage in wonder. The _nerve_ …

“You’re funny. I like you.”

Matthew rolled his eyes and tried to shake him off.

“Fantastic,” he drawled.

“My name is Gilbert, by the way. Gilbert Beilschmidt.”

“That’s nice.”

“And you are…?” He pressed on, undeterred. Matthew wanted to push him over and run screaming down the street but he thought that might be a bit of an overreaction. No, Gilbert had asked him a direct question and he was simply too polite to say ‘fuck off’. Screw his manners.

“… Matthew,” he murmured. He tried to twist out from under his arm but Gilbert stepped even closer, if possible.

“Matthew,” he repeated, tasting it. He somehow managed to make his name sound more important, heavier than it was. “Nice. So, hey, what are you doing later?”

* * *

He was not sure how it had happened. No, really. He had no idea how he had come to find himself sitting in a dilapidated bar, clutching a cheap bottle of beer between trembling fingers, but he had almost dried off and that had to count for something, right?

Probably not, but that was exactly where he was.

The other patrons tittered and laughed, pushing against each other and crowding around the stage. He sat in the last booth, near the exit, and tried to be as unassuming as possible. He felt exposed. Vulnerable.

He studied the crowd in an effort to distract himself and found that it was a strange mixture of world wearied men and bohemian students.

He tucked his blonde curls behind his ears, feathered and uncontrollable, and knew that he did not fit in. He was wearing an oversized sweater and torn jeans and a pair of ragged orange sneakers. His battered canvas satchel was almost a hundred years old and it showed. It had belonged to his great-great-grandfather. It had seen three wars and five generations.

His wrists were decorated with the crude, knotted bracelets that his brother sent from college, from another province; handmade and far from perfect.

Maybe he should leave…

The stage lit up as he stood and Gilbert walked out across the creaking floorboards.

Gilbert. The reason he was there in the first place.

The rest of the band sauntered out after him, fiddling with their instruments and elbowing each other, but all of his attention was focused on the charismatic stranger who had needled and urged him to come. His white undershirt was still soaked through and it highlighted the contours of his hipbones and his peaked nipples. His boots crawled up his calves to his thighs and his tight, tattered jeans left nothing to the imagination. He smirked and looked right at him.

And Matthew felt his mouth slide open.

Gilbert stepped up to the microphone and introduced himself, or the band, but Matthew was not listening. He watched his lips move, wrapping around the vowels and consonants, and felt his knees buckle. Oh, _wow_ …

He sat through the entire set without hearing a word.

And when Gilbert leapt off the stage and stalked across the bar, Matthew just nodded. He was not sure what he had agreed to, not really, but it sounded a lot like ‘What are you doing next week?’

* * *

Gilbert kept asking him out and Matthew kept saying ‘yes’. He was not sure why, exactly, but it might have been his infectious laugh or enticing smile. Or maybe it was those ridiculously tight jeans…

“Why are you blushing?” Gilbert asked as he leaned over and stole a handful of fries from the basket in front of him. Matthew squeaked indignantly.

“I am _not_ blushing!”

Gilbert studied him for a moment before grinning and stuffing the fries into his mouth. It should not have been attractive but he winked and, somehow, it was.

"Nope,” he mumbled around his stolen conquest, “you’re definitely blushing. It’s kinda’ cute, actually.”

Matthew crossed his arms and pouted.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” he reprimanded half heartedly. Gilbert just laughed.

“It sounds dirty when you say it.”

Okay, so maybe he was blushing. So sue him.

“It does not.”

“Oh, it does. It totally does. I like it…” He trailed off as the rest of the band settled next to them, shuffling their meal orders and struggling with packets of salt and pepper. Lovino elbowed Antonio when he sat a little too close and Francis grimaced, picking at the burger and fries.

“So,” Francis started, pushing his meal towards Gilbert, “We’ve been booked for another show at The Fiddling Frog and at Chains and Gangs, but Misericordia just called and…”

Lovino interrupted him, holding up his manicured hand. His painted fingernails caught in the harsh, two-in-the-morning fluorescent lighting.

“Let me get this straight, Misericordia called?”

“Yes, this afternoon, and I said…”

“What did you say?”

“Well, I said ‘yes’, of course.”

“Damn it, Francis, when are we supposed to find the time to sell that many tickets?! Some of us are still in school, dumbass.”

“I just thought that…”

“You didn’t think shit!”

“Now, Lovi…”

“Shut up.”

Matthew leaned into Gilbert, pressing against him and relishing where their dips and swells matched up, slotting together perfectly. He lowered his voice.

“What’s the problem?”

Gilbert shovelled another handful of fries into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Not a problem, really. It’s a good thing. Miseri’ is a bigger name, bigger stage.”

“But…?”

“It’s a bigger venue too.”

Matthew blinked.

“So…?”

“More tickets.”

Matthew watched Lovino and Francis bicker, scrabbling over each other and smacking their fists on the table. Antonio raised his hands in defeat, backing up, caught between exasperation and amusement. Gilbert frowned, and that was enough, more than enough. It did not suit him.

“What if, I don’t know, what if I helped?” Matthew ventured, tucking his blonde curls behind his ear.

The entire band stopped and stared at him. Gilbert looked the most surprised.

“You want to… Help…?” Lovino asked, bewildered.

“Uh, well,” Matthew fiddled with the hem of his sweater and averted his gaze. “I go to the university uptown, and Lovino goes to the technical college, and Antonio hangs out at Third and Main, so… Why not? I think we could do it. I could even sell tickets at your other shows, while you’re on stage.”

“Matthew,” Gilbert breathed, punched out and raw. He chewed on his lip.

“If, if that’s okay. I mean, I don’t want to presume, but Gilbert keeps dragging me to your shows whether I want to come or not, he makes me promise, and I might as well make myself useful and, well, I think you guys are… Uhm, good. You’re good. I think we could do it.”

The pots and pans jangled and clattered behind them, echoing in the silence as the kitchen cleaned up and the restaurant closed, as the cashiers slipped out from behind the counter to wipe the tables and upturn chairs.

And then Francis cackled and slapped Gilbert on the back. He spluttered.

“Oh my god, Gilbert, where did you find him?!”

Matthew flushed another shade darker as Gilbert reached out and took his hand in his own. It was covered in grease and condiments but Matthew had never been happier.

“I missed my bus,” Gilbert admitted, sounding awed at his own luck. Lovino snorted, shaking his head. Antonio chuckled. “So, uh, when is the show?”

Francis hummed, flicking his tresses over his shoulder as he checked his mobile. He scrolled through their schedule.

“April twenty fourth.”

Matthew counted on his fingers.

“Almost a month.”

“We better get started, then.”

They gathered their trays, their bags, and started packing up. Francis and Lovino continued to argue, throwing insults like punches. Antonio slurped noisily at his milkshake.

Gilbert squeezed his hand and pulled him back into his seat when he tried to stand up. He grinned.

“So… What are you doing next month?”

* * *

The months stretched on, and on and on and on, and Matthew kept his word. He came to every show, he sold tickets on campus, and he helped put up flyers. He learnt how to talk to strangers, how to sell an idea, a brand. He stayed out on the weekends, he drank more than he should, he laughed a little too loudly, a little too abrasively, and he adored every minute of it.

He finally felt comfortable in his own skin, at home with himself. He had friends, and dreams, and aspirations, and… Well…

Gilbert snuffled and turned over, purring, wrapping his arms around his naked chest and pulling him closer. He pressed a smattering of gentle kisses against his neck and shoulders.

“Go t’ sleep, Matthew,” he whined, mumbling.

“I can’t. Thinkin’.”

“ ‘bout what?”

“The band, I guess. You.”

Gilbert stiffened.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

He pushed himself up, leaning over Matthew, pale and bruised and impossibly thin. And so beautiful. Matthew rolled over, staring, and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. He hummed in appreciation.

The streetlights flickered in through the window, painting the apartment in shades of grey as the trains rattled past.

They sprawled across a mattress on the floorboards.

“Matthew,” his voice was rough with emotion, like a warning, like a lighthouse on the rocks. Matthew trailed his fingers over his cheekbones. It broke his heart.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Everything’s perfect. That’s the problem.” He brushed his thumbs over his eyelashes. Gilbert sighed. “There’s a… Label. They approached us last week, after the show.”

Matthew nodded and he continued.

“We could actually _go_ somewhere, _do_ something. Francis wants to sign. He has a family to think of, y’know, and this might be his last chance.” Gilbert shifted, leaning closer. He closed his eyes. “And Lovi was thinking about dropping out anyway. He’s in. And Antonio would follow him anywhere. But…”

"You’re leaving,” Matthew said simply, quietly.

His eyes snapped open again.

“ _No_. I don’t want to. Not without you. But you’re almost done your practicum, you only have a year left, and I know how important that is to you. You’re going to help people. You’re going to make a difference. I can’t ask you to give all of that up.”

Matthew kissed Gilbert gently, softly, and then more urgently. He forgot how to breathe. He devoured him.

“How long?” He panted in between kisses. Gilbert ran his hands over his stomach, his thighs. He lifted his legs. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“You should.”

“I love you.”

Matthew choked and threw his arms around his shoulders.

“I love you too.”

He gasped vows against his skin; he licked oaths across his chest. He bit and nipped and sucked promises from the palms of his hands to the soles of his feet.

Matthew gave him everything; laid himself open, bare, and watched as Gilbert scooped out his heart. Stole it. Or maybe it had always been his.

And when dawn crowded out the streetlights, he actually felt better.

“How long?” He asked again from the protective circle of his arms, from their safe haven. The words sat heavy on his tongue but there was nothing for it: Matthew needed to stay, at least for another year, and Gilbert had to take a chance, a risk, a leap of faith. They were star crossed lovers.

“A couple of years, at least.”

“Where?”

“Toronto,” he sighed. Their noses touched as they breathed the same air, in and out.

“That’s not _that_ far.”

"Further than I’d like, really,” Gilbert chuckled weakly.

“Yeah…” His alarm started flashing. “I’ll visit. And, well, I’m done my practicum in a year. I can work anywhere. I’ll follow you.”

Gilbert stared at him in disbelief, in wonder. No one else had ever looked at him like that. How could he possibly think, even for a minute, that he was willing to give that up? No, never.

“So, I guess the real question is…” He smiled tentatively, trembling and unsure and perfect. “What are you doing next year?”

Matthew started laughing, manic and broken.

And he could not stop.

* * *

Three years passed, that first year in scrawled letters and disastrous ‘sext’ messages, and the next two from a shared apartment with a view. Matthew grew flowers on the terrace. Gilbert overwatered them.

The band did well for itself, churning out a handful of albums and a loyal, cloying following. They even landed on the charts a couple of times. Francis bought a house for his family. Antonio finally convinced Lovino to go out with him. Lovino immediately threatened to break up.

Matthew applied at the local hospital.

It was frustrating, sometimes, dating a rockstar. Gilbert tended to disappear for weeks at a time. He met famous actors and producers, models, politicians. He went to fabulous parties. In other countries.

But he called Matthew from the washroom, thumping bass in the background, just to shout that he was thinking about him. He sent him photographs of the airport or hotel or venue. He mailed postcards.

He hid ridiculous notes around the apartment whenever he left, handwritten on brightly coloured pieces of paper, tucked in the strangest places. ‘ _Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?_ ’, ‘ _If I told you that you had a gorgeous body, would you hold it against me?_ ’, ‘ _If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I together’._ Matthew kept them in shoebox in their closet.

It was not where he had expected to find himself, maybe, so many years ago but… He was happy.

And he was in love. Truly and absolutely.

Matthew bounced up and down, waiting impatiently for their airplane to land, crowded out by media personnel and hardcore fanatics. They were finally coming home. Gilbert was coming home.

The gates opened and the groupies surged forward, the reporters started shouting over each other. Francis and Antonio waved. Lovino frowned.

Gilbert darted past them and threw himself at Matthew.

“I missed you!”

“I missed you too,” Matthew laughed, spinning him in circles as their press agent tried to shoo the media towards the rest of the band members. “How was Japan?”

“Loud. Vibrant! You would have liked the temples.”

He stopped spinning long enough to set his feet on the tiles, to step back. Gilbert grinned at him, crooked and feral and achingly familiar. Matthew reached out for his hand.

“Maybe I’ll come next time.”

“You should have come this time.”

“Some of us have actual jobs,” he smirked, shrugging. “I had to work.”

Gilbert opened his mouth, probably to kick and scream and defend ‘rockstar’ as a viable career choice, but he tripped over his words. He paused and stared at Matthew; a little hungry, a little desperate…

He had missed the way Gilbert looked at him.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

Matthew stepped closer and kissed him gently, searchingly. What…?

“Yeah.”

“And that I never want to leave.”

“I know. I have to force you to go on tour. You’re a terrible rockstar,” he reprimanded softly.

“I was going to wait but…” Gilbert fidgeted, embarrassed. “I want to marry you.”

Matthew blinked.

“… What?”

“I want to marry you,” Gilbert said a little louder as the video cameras and microphones swivelled in their direction. Matthew could almost hear their press agent smack his forehead. He had probably told Gilbert to avoid exactly this situation.

“I, uh, I… What?”

Gilbert sank to one knee, dragging him down, lacing their fingers together.

“Matthew,” he cleared his throat and kissed the back of his hand. “What are you doing for the rest of your life?”

**Author's Note:**

> He said 'yes', of course.
> 
> Gilbert had probably been planning to ask him for weeks and his press agent had definitely begged him to wait until they were out of sight, until they were home, dear god, anywhere but the middle of the airport. But Gilbert has always been a little impatient.
> 
> This was just an excuse to write a series of vignettes, an evolution of a relationship, and the places we end up when we stop holding on so tight. The people we meet. And as always, I left a lot of the details open.


End file.
